


Tale of a Mouse

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-05
Updated: 2006-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:52:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: AU fairy tale. (05/09/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Yes, swear to God this is a fairy tale. As such, it is totally AU to everything I've ever written and probably everything in the actual Enterprise universe, though I did try to stay as much in character as possible. This silly bunny bit me months and months ago, after Moppig wrote a really sweet story wherin Malcolm tells Trip two of his fantasies. Malcolm happened to mention a mouse, and this is what resulted. I wish I could blame Moppig, but I fear this is all totally my own doing. Hey, at least nobody dies. :-) And thanks to the chat gang on Tuesday, for nifty cat-related suggestions.  
  
Beta: Thank you, again and always, to Squeaky, who puts up with all my assorted weirdness and still betas everything.  


* * *

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a kingdom ruled by a wise and gracious king named Jonathan of the Bow.

Now King Jonathan, as well as being wise and gracious, had a great fondness for adventure. He was often away, exploring unknown lands. When he was home he would hold lavish feasts at his castle, inviting great monarchs and lords from all the neighboring kingdoms. Thus Jonathan became well loved, known for his generosity and genuine curiosity about how others lived their lives.

There were some, however, who worried that the king's openness might lead to ruin; that evil people would take advantage of King Jonathan, using the guise of friendship to slip through the gates. Once inside, the castle would be at their mercy—and so would the kingdom fall.

There were none so preoccupied with this fear than Sir Malcolm: the finest knight in all the kingdom, and Jonathan's Master-At-Arms. In truth, Malcolm hated his King's welcoming spirit, for he felt it made him too vulnerable. The King in his turn would argue that without trust there could be no joy in life, for the one was the only true source of the other. They fought bitterly over this, and often, but ultimately the King's word held. Malcolm had sworn loyalty unto death and would not disobey him, no matter how wrong he felt Jonathan to be in his heart.

So it came to pass that one day King Jonathan was called away to another kingdom, where his wisdom was requested to settle a dispute. The quarrel was long-standing and bitter, and it seemed likely that the king and his retinue would be gone for quite some time.

King Jonathan called for Sir Malcolm, and told him that he was leaving him in charge of the kingdom for the time he would be away. Malcolm protested vehemently, for he knew the King could be no safer than with himself at his side. But Jonathan insisted that his finest knight should stay at the castle, since his subjects together were much more important than he alone. Malcolm tried to argue, but again he was held by his bond and could not disobey.

King Jonathan left, giving his knight strict orders to guard the kingdom, but to treat all strangers the way the king himself would. Malcolm gave his word he would guard the kingdom with his life, and remained behind.

The king had not been gone more than a week when three visitors arrived at the gate of the castle. They were two women: lithe, dark- haired and exotic, and a young and handsome dark-skinned man. They were obviously strangers, and the gatekeeper ran immediately to get Sir Malcolm for permission to let them in.

Malcolm was busy in the castle's armory, working on reinforcing the strength of the battlements. He was not pleased to be interrupted, especially by the news of strangers requesting entrance.

"I'll see them," he said angrily, but he had already determined not to let them in. When he arrived at the giant gate he only became more certain. The travelers were well dressed and attractive, obviously from some rich and distant land, but they were foreign to him and the kingdom. It also made the knight suspicious to see three people of such obvious wealth traveling alone.

"Please, good Sir," said the younger of the two women, who had hair black as night and eyes that shone like stars, "we have come far and are tired. Will you not open your gate and show us hospitality?" She was wearing a blue-green gown that shimmered like precious metals, and her voice could have lured the doves from the sky.

"No, I will not," Said Malcolm. King Jonathan would not be pleased, he knew, but he had given his word only to protect the kingdom, not to entertain potential enemies.

"Your caution is admirable," said the second woman, the eldest of the three. She was wearing simple scholars' robes of rich brown, though well-made and well-tailored. Her hair was short, as befitted one of her order, and her eyes were somber and missed nothing. "But you can see we pose you no threat—there are only three of us, all unarmed; whereas there are many of your soldiers. Malcolm's face was still, but inwardly he shuddered to think she had already seen the castle's defenses. He decided that these three travelers could not be truly what they seemed.

"I will decide what makes a threat, m'Lady," Malcolm said. He was polite, but steadfast. The scholar nodded gracefully and turned to her last companion.

"You are trying to build walls that can't be broken," the young man said. He was scarcely older than a youth: dressed in gold; as sweet as summer with a smile like the sun. "—But you have built far higher and stronger ones around your heart. You need to learn how to trust, my friend. Without trust there can be no joy in life, for the one is the only true source of the other."

"We are not friends, stranger," Sir Malcolm replied. His voice was cool, though in truth he was appalled to think this youth could know what he had been planning; and his heart quailed to hear the same words his king had so often spoken to him. "And for all your clever words and concern for my heart, I still will not let you in."

He bid the three good night, and was about to go on his way, when the scholar woman spoke,

"Sir Knight," she said, "you have, with your overly cautious nature, done no-one but yourself great harm. I am the Elf Queen and these are my servants. We have come here to make a test of souls, and found yours wanting. If you had shown trust and let us enter, much wealth and fortune would have fallen upon you. But thrice you were asked and thrice refused, and thus shall you suffer for it."

So saying, she cast a spell, and the knight was instantly transformed into a mouse. His startled cry became a tiny squeak, and then a dark- brown mouse appeared where just before Sir Malcolm had been. It stood on its tiny hind legs, nose trembling, gray-blue eyes wide and terrified. The other knights and solders ran in fear, knowing they were in the midst of great and terrible magic.

The second woman stepped forward then, and knelt on the ground so that she could look the tiny creature in the eyes. "My gift is to know the language of all creatures, Mouse, so it is I who will speak to you now.

"You, who were among the greatest of men, have become the least of creatures. You, who would trust no stranger, must depend on strangers now, for you shall thrive or die only through their kindness. You, who built walls to surround his heart, must find a way to enter another's, or never more shall you be a man." She smiled for him then, and for a moment the little mouse was comforted.

"All spells may be broken," the lady continued, "and so this spell may be broken thus: if you can make someone trust you, despite your form and your size, you will be a man again. Until that day, you will be but a mouse." She rose to her feet, looking down on the small creature. "We are not heartless, though not of the world of men, so my companion will point the way for you. It is his gift: to always know one's true destination." She turned to the young man and smiled.

The youth said nothing, for the language of men was meaningless to the mouse now, but he closed his eyes in thought, then grinned and opened them again. He turned to the South, pointing unerringly.

"That is the way you must go," the young woman said. "There you will find what you need to break the spell. We wish you good journey."

And so saying, the three disappeared.

The mouse was left alone, shivering in fear. His soldiers were gone; his tiny paws far too small and weak to grasp his sword. He could hear the men he formerly commanded, shouting to one another in alarm, but he could not tell what they said.

He wanted nothing so much as to find a quiet, warm hole and hide.

But the Elf Queen's first servant had told him the spell could be broken, and the Elf Queen's second servant had pointed the way. He had to go South, though he knew not how far, nor for how long. But he had no choice if he ever again wished to be a man.

He turned his little body South and scampered towards the forest, his tail flying behind him.

Thus he ran for many days, seeing no one, hearing and smelling nothing but the predators of the forest, 'til his throat burned and his legs cramped, and his belly ached from hunger. At last he could run no farther, and finally he stumbled into a thorn bush, where he took refuge beneath the prickly vines. There he collapsed, exhausted. His last thought before he fell into a deep sleep was that surely he was doomed to be a mouse forever—for he had come all this way and seen no person; and if he did, who would ever notice a mere mouse, or take pity on him?

Yet Fate is often kind, and it so happened that the thorn bush where the mouse took refuge bordered the woods near a solitary farm. The farm was very poor, with two scrawny cows and six scraggly chickens, and a small field of grain. On this farm an old farmer lived alone with his son, for his last wife had died many years before.

The elder farmer was not an evil man, but he had married three times in his life, and each time his wife had been the sun and the moon to him. Yet each died long before her time, the last giving birth to their only son. Since that time it was for the farmer as if the world had turned to ashes. He spent all his time tending to his small garden of roses—three bushes planted in memory—lamenting the loss of each of his wives.

Instead, all the normal chores of farm and household fell to his son and only heir, who was named Charles. Charles was as beautiful and golden as any prince, though his life was spent toiling in the fields and tending to the needs of the work animals. He was good and kind and quick to smile, though he had lived his whole life in the shadow of his father's sorrow.

It so happened that on the very day the enchanted knight had taken refuge among the thorns, Charles had been forced to go into the forest, to find the two cows. They were constantly breaking the fence and escaping, no matter how cleverly Charles patched and repaired it to keep them in.

Charles had been searching for hours, with no sign of the missing beasts. He finally stopped to rest beneath a great tree just on the edge of the woods, so he could keep an eye on his farm during his respite. The tree grew very near a thorn bush, and Charles had just eased himself down against the trunk, when a tiny, dark shape caught his eye.

"What's this here, then?" He asked, for he had never seen a mouse with fur of such a dark brown, and at first did not know what it was. He leaned forward to peer at it closely, and was amazed to see it was nothing more than a mouse. He felt sorry for the little creature and picked it up, and was surprised when it awoke, but stayed still in his hand. He was amazed also at the mouse's eyes; for they were blue as the sea, a color he had never seen on a beast before. "You seem to be a special sort of mouse, little one," he said, "but be off with you, before the fox or the owl have you for their supper." He put the mouse back on the ground, but it only stayed, staring up at him with such marvelous eyes, until Charles relented and picked it up again.

"If you won't leave, perhaps it's because you're hungry," he said. He carefully reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of bread, which he had taken that morning to eat while he searched for his cows. Now he broke off a morsel and put it next to the mouse, and was astonished to see the animal gobble it up before his eyes. "I shouldn't do this," Charles said, "since if you're fat and healthy you'll just stay to eat our grain." But Charles kept breaking off pieces of bread for the mouse, who ate and ate until it was all gone.

"Well, if you're so hungry, you're probably thirsty as well." Charles said, "Though I should be giving you water no more than I should have given you food." But all the same, he took his water skin from his shoulder and held it so the mouse could drink from it. And the mouse drank and drank until it had had it's fill.

When he saw that the mouse would take no more of the water, Charles placed the creature gently on the ground again, saying, "you've had my dinner, and drunk your fill, so be off with you—I have nothing more to spare." But again the mouse refused to leave. Instead, it scampered quick as a wink up to his shoulder where it stayed on all fours by his ear, as if there could be no better place in the entire world.

"You are a strange one," the farmer said, "not going when you should." But it had been a long time since he had anyone but himself or his grieving father to talk to, and a mouse is a little enough burden. Charles shrugged and got to his feet, and all the while the mouse stood on his shoulder, apparently determined to stay there always. "I'll put you back in the forest long before I go into the house," the farmer reasoned, "so you won't have a chance to get in with all your brothers and sisters. Perhaps," he laughed, "I'll find the cattle before nightfall with your extra pair of eyes."

He set off again, whistling. He did not know that the mouse on his shoulder had once been a knight.

Malcolm the Mouse was elated: here was a person—a good person—who had found him and given him food and water when he had thought all was lost. Surely this was the means to break the spell that the Elf Queen had placed on him. He didn't know yet what he could do to win the man's trust, but he was suddenly confident that he could. So he stayed on the farmer's shoulder, quiet as his enchanted namesake. He did not know what the farmer said to him, but he had been allowed to stay and took that as a good sign. He would wait, and see what opportunities presented themselves for him to break the spell.

It took another hour before the farmer found the cows, but find them he did, and without too much effort he was able to drive them the long distance home, though it was well after dark when they arrived. The mouse had stayed on Charles' shoulder the whole time. "Well, perhaps you're lucky," the farmer said to him, yawning widely, "Since we found the stupid beasts easy enough, and none the worse for wear."

Malcolm the Mouse was himself not so sure of that, since he could see it was quite late, and he could guess that if the cattle had been wandering than there was still a fence to fix. Had he been at his castle, and still a knight, he would have set the reeve to take care of the fence, with boys to watch the cows so they couldn't escape again. He wondered how this man, so late at night, could hope to solve both problems on his own.

As it was, the farmer was obviously exhausted; Malcolm was certain he had been out searching for the cattle since before dawn. And yet the mouse was impressed that he made sure the cows were fed and watered before setting out to make the needed repairs. Malcolm stayed on his shoulder the entire time, holding tight to the collar of the farmer's shirt, nose twitching and keen eyes watching everything.

Charles went unerringly to where he knew the cows had broken through the fence, sighing in dismay when he saw the extent of the damage. This would take him hours to mend, and there was no guarantee that the wicked beasts wouldn't break it down again the moment his back was turned.

He sat heavily on the grass, putting aside his tools and lantern as he leaned against a fence post. He reached up with a finger and gently stroked the mouse's head. "I don't know why you're still here, little Mouse," he said, "but you should probably go and find a nice place to sleep. It would be good to know that one of us was." He chuckled to himself, imagining what his father would say if he knew his son was talking to mice. But it soon made him scowl to think of it, and he plucked the mouse gently from his shoulder and put him onto the ground.

"Be off with you," he said, "if you stay, you'll just eat our grain." But the mouse didn't move. Instead he stood there on his hind legs, nose twitching as he looked up into the farmer's shadowed eyes.

Charles sat with his elbows on his bent knees, staring perplexed at the small creature. "I've never seen anyone with less sense than you, Mouse," he said, shaking his head in bewilderment. "What are you waiting for? Do you think I have more food for you? Well, there's none—none for either of us. Now go away, I have work to do."

The mouse cocked his tiny head to the side, but he didn't move.

"Fine then, stay if you like," Charles said, "don't blame me if I step on you in the dark." He didn't move right away though, despite the fact that the night was getting older and older and the fence was no closer to being mended. 'I'll just rest awhile,' he thought, 'just a very little while.' And he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Malcolm Mouse watched silently until the man was asleep, then he scampered forward and got a good look at the break in the fence. The two cross beams were broken, and the mouse could see they had been broken and repaired many times. 'When I'm a knight again,' Malcolm Mouse thought, 'I'll make sure King Jonathan lets the peasants take more wood from the forest.'

But then he thought that perhaps he would never be a knight again, and he was saddened. 'Still,' he thought, 'maybe I can help the farmer with this, even so lowly as I am.'

"Ho there, Mouse," came a voice nearby, "what are you doing there— does the man not frighten you?" It was a small spider, dangling on a long silken string from her web. She glided down until she was right in front of the mouse's face, looking at him with her many shining eyes.

"I was once a man," Malcolm Mouse said, not at all surprised that he could now speak to the spider, "but that is no matter now. My," he said, looking up at the spider's web, "that is a wonderful piece of work you have. What a fine weaver you are!"

"Why, thank you, Mouse," the spider sighed, "Still, there are days it scarcely lets me catch enough to keep from going hungry."

"Is that so?" Malcolm Mouse asked. He looked over at the broken part of the fence, then back at the spider, and the small web she was hanging from. "Perhaps, m'Lady Spider, if you made your web larger...?"

It was the cold dawn that awoke Charles shivering, his breath frosting the air. He blinked, looking around. When he realized he had slept the whole night outside the cow pasture he tried to leap to his feet, certain that the animals had walked right by him in the night. But he was stiff and sore from so many hours outside, and it was a moment or two before he was truly upright and able to look into the pasture.

Both cows were calmly eating the grass, staring dully at him.

"I must still be dreaming," he said aloud, for he knew there was no way the cows would have stayed in the pasture unless they had no choice in the matter. Then he heard a tiny, insistent squeaking, and looked down at the fence.

The fence had been completely repaired—with spider web; of the thickest and strongest silken cords Charles had ever seen. Wonderingly, he ran his hand over them, trying to pluck them, snap the threads, but they were like steel and nothing he could do would break them.

The little dark-brown mouse was standing on his hind-legs on the fence post. "What—you're still here?" Charles asked. Then he looked at the wondrous spider's web again, then back at the mouse. "Did you have something to do with this?"

In response, the mouse jumped from the post to his arm, and scampered back up to his shoulder, where it sat cleaning his whiskers as if that were the most natural spot for whisker-cleaning in the world.

"No," Charles said. He shook his head. "It might be a miracle, but it can't be a mouse. A mouse can do nothing but eat grain." He gently plucked the creature from his shoulder and put it back on the fence post, before bending to pick up the tools and lantern. "I appreciate your company, little one," he said to the mouse, "but I need to get back—my father will be worried."

Malcolm Mouse watched the farmer trudging back towards the ramshackle farmhouse. He did not know what the man had said to him, but he had been left behind and that was more than telling. He sighed, quickly finished cleaning his whiskers, and set out after him. He was determined to prove himself so he could once again be a man.

Well, as you all know, one step for a man is very many for a mouse, and run as he might, the farmer had already started working by the time Malcolm Mouse arrived at the farmyard. This time he found the farmer trying to patch some small holes in the chicken coop—more, it seemed, than one person could hope to patch in a lifetime. The man seemed greatly unhappy to be doing this task, and with his keen nose, Malcolm Mouse could smell that it was because a weasel had broken in, and likely made off with several eggs.

Malcolm Mouse stayed hidden for a little while, but when the farmer stopped his work for a moment he ran out into the open and leaped upon his boot.

"Ho, there! You're back again?" Charles was amazed at the persistence of this small creature, especially since this time he had not so much as a scrap of bread to offer him. "If you had anything to do with the fence, Mouse, then maybe you can help me with this as well." He gestured towards one of the several holes he had managed to patch with a bit of clay. "It seems for every hole I close, there's two more, and when night comes, the weasel is sure to return." He sighed heavily. "I've asked my father for help, but he says he's too busy. I fear come morning we'll not have one bird left alive."

The mouse just looked at him, round gray-blue eyes shining in the daylight. "I'm going crazy, must be, talking to a mouse," Charles laughed at himself, then shook his foot gently until the little creature slipped off. "I have no more bread for you Mouse, nor any more water. I don't want to harm you, but you can't stay here. A mouse is good for nothing but eating grain." He turned from the mouse and began filling in holes again.

Malcolm Mouse could not understand his words, but he recognized what the man was doing well enough. It seemed that for every hole the farmer mended, there remained at least two more. He also knew he was not wanted; the man had no trust for him. 'Perhaps I shall never again be a knight,' the mouse thought, 'but at least I can help him, lowly creature though I may be.' And with that he ran in a new direction, once more towards the woods.

The mouse did not have to go far, for his nose was very fine and he could quickly smell what he needed. There was a beehive, not too far from the farm. Malcolm Mouse climbed nimbly up the tree to the branch just under where the hive was. He settled himself snug in a hole, and waited until one of the bees noticed him.

"What do you want, Mouse?" the soldier bee demanded haughtily, "you must know full well you are in the domain of Queen BlissWing—state your business, and be quick about it, or we will sting you to death!"

"I have a proposition for your Queen, O, blackstripe," Malcolm Mouse said politely but firmly. He drew himself up to his full height on the branch, remembering that not so long ago he was the finest knight of a beloved king. "I know a garden nearby in which blooms delicious flowers. I will lead you there—provided your Queen will grant some of her soldiers to do a task for me."

In the morning, Charles walked miserably towards the henhouse. He had worked late into the night again, and he was still sore from the previous night, but he was sure that as much work he had done it had not been enough. He was certain the weasel had come back in the dark, and the few remaining chickens would all be dead.

Instead, he found the weasel, itself stone dead in the yard.

"I'm going mad," he said softly, and knelt by the animal's corpse. It was obvious by the husks surrounding it that the weasel had been stung to death by bees. Charles looked up in amazement, hearing a loud buzzing, to see what looked like hundreds of bees bobbing contentedly from flower to flower in his father's garden.

And next thing he knew, there was the tickling touch of scrabbling feet on his back, and he looked to his right to see the dark brown mouse perched on his shoulder once more.

"You again!" Charles exclaimed, looking back and forth from the dead weasel to the live mouse, "I've never seen so many bees in my life before, and now another trouble's gone—did you have something to do with this?"

The mouse, of course, stared back into his sky-blue eyes, but did not answer.

"No," Charles said, "It might be a miracle, but it can't be a mouse. A mouse can do nothing but eat grain. Still," he sighed, watching as the little creature began a methodical cleaning of his tiny paws, "you've been good company, and asked little enough. You might as well stay on my shoulder, since that seems to make you happy." He patted his pocket and winked, smiling at the tiny animal. "And today I even have something to share." He looked down at the body of the weasel again, shaking his head. "Well, since it looks like I won't have to worry about the chickens for awhile, we might as well go see if the grain is ready for threshing." And he walked towards the field, the mouse riding on his shoulder.

Though Malcolm Mouse could not understand the man's words, he nonetheless knew a good thing when he saw it, and the fact that the farmer had smiled at him heartened him greatly. He could also smell the bread in the farmer's pocket, and was thrilled that it looked like it would be shared with him once again. 'Maybe now this man trusts me,' he thought as he held onto his frayed collar for balance, but then sadly realized it could not be so, for otherwise would he not have already been restored as a knight?

The mouse's sad musings were interrupted when the farmer reached the field. "Oh, no!" the man cried, and even with no understanding of his words, Malcolm Mouse could easily see the reason for his obvious dismay.

The grain had been scythed already, and set up in neat cone-shaped bundles to dry. The field was not large, but fully a quarter of the grain had been knocked over, pulled out of the cones and scattered on the ground. The farmer knelt, grabbed a handful of the stalks to examine them, then closed his eyes in frustration. The mouse could tell that all the grain had been taken from the stalks and eaten. "You see?" he asked angrily, shaking the stripped wheat stalks at the mouse, "this is your brethren, Mouse." He dropped the stalks, rubbing his face tiredly with his hands. "It's just as I said," he sighed, "a mouse can do nothing but eat grain." He gestured at the field. "If we lose much more, we won't even have enough for winter, let alone to sell."

'This will not do,' thought Malcolm Mouse. The man's words were meaningless to him, but his eyes were no less keen for being so much smaller, and he knew as well as any farmer that it was a terrible thing to lose so much grain. 'He may not trust me, and it is likely he never will,' the mouse thought, 'but I think I know how to help him, lowly creature though I may be.' And with that he leapt off the farmer's shoulder, then began running wildly through the cones of grain.

He heard the farmer calling after him, but Malcolm Mouse did not turn back. 'No doubt he thinks I will be eating this grain myself,' the mouse thought, 'but if I can trust my tiny nose, I might have solved this problem by tonight.' So emboldened, the mouse ran further into the fields, following where a particular scent was leading him.

The trail ended at a large barn, not on the small farm property, but belonging to a more prosperous neighbor. Even from a far distance the mouse could hear a cacophony of hissing, caterwauling and yowls. The barn was full of cats.

'Protector of small things preserve me,' Malcolm Mouse prayed, and he snuck closer and closer to the barn.

"This is absurd!" A cat was howling in rage as she stalked back and forth in front of the largest cat of the crowd, her tail flicking madly with impatience, "shall we all starve, your highness? No!" she spat, turning to the multitude of other cats surrounding her. It seemed every possible nook and cranny of the barn was taken up with tattered, half-wild cats. Their fur was dirty and their ribs stuck out against their mottled sides. "No, I say!" The she-cat snarled, yellow eyes narrowed in anger, "there must be more territory that is free for the taking, more fields that have not been hunted out, nor claimed by others of our kind! All we must do is find them!"

Malcolm Mouse watched from between the broken wall slats where he had crept into the barn, silent as his namesake. At the she-cat's words, all the rest of the cats burst into howls and meows of agreement, their tails thrashing. "Find them! Find them!" Other cats yelled down from the barn rafters and from among the piles of hay, "no more starving! Mice for all!"

"Patience, my whiskered brothers and sisters!" The large cat called out, slapping his paw against the dirt floor for emphasis, "patience!" When the barn was finally quiet, he continued. "And who shall find us this new territory, my cat-kind?" He looked derisively at the she-cat, who was still pacing. His orange eyes were slit with anger. "You, BirdStalker?" He snorted. "You still have four mewling kittens not even old enough to open their eyes." He looked back and forth among the collected cats, and one by one they looked away from him. "You, PounceBugs? You? Any of you? Huh," he sat back on his ample haunches, licking a forepaw. "We can yowl about this all we like, but finding this supposed new territory is another matter."

"I know of new territory for you, O Prince of Cats," Malcolm Mouse said, and walked into the center of the clearing.

"Mother Fourpaws!" The Prince of Cats exclaimed. He leapt to his feet, back arched in alarm. The she-cat called BirdStalker whirled on the mouse immediately and pounced, but Malcolm Mouse dodged nimbly and avoided her claws.

Instantly all the cats were on their feet, snarling and hissing, grinding their teeth as if they were already tasting the mouse's tiny heart. But Malcolm Mouse had once been a man, and a knight, and he stood tall on his hind legs. His tail curled calmly around his feet, and he showed not a whisker-twitch of fear.

"You need new territory in which to hunt," Malcolm Mouse said when the noise and the cats had finally quieted, "I can lead you to it."

The large Cat Prince leaned forward, fanged mouth open as he breathed in the mouse's scent. "Why would you do this, Mouse? By giving us food you are destroying your own kind. That is not natural."

Beside him, BirdStalker snarled. "I smell a trap."

Malcolm Mouse just looked at her blandly. "And what could even a hundred thousand of my brethren do to so many of you?"

"The prey is right, BirdStalker," the Cat Prince growled, "we lose nothing by following him. And potentially gain much."

BirdStalker sniffed, then gave a sharp nod. "So be it, Prince of Cats. We shall follow this mouse and see what we shall see. But, Mouse," she turned to glare at the dark-brown animal, "if this is some kind of trick or game, nothing on this earth will save you from my teeth and claws."

"Of course," Malcolm Mouse gave the cats a courtly nod, "I would expect nothing less from hunters such as you."

The shadows had only begun lengthening into mid afternoon, and Charles had just finished setting what he could of the remains of the grain to rights. He put his hands on his hips, stretching backwards as he looked out over what was left of his field. If the mice came back, and it was more than certain they would, there would more than likely not be enough grain left for winter. Charles sighed, running his fingers through his hair. Perhaps he could find the hive all those bees had come from, sell the honey. If he were lucky that might make up for the loss of some of the grain.

The sound of hundreds of footfalls startled him out of his musings. He looked out across the field, and blinked. Then he looked again.

There were cats upon cats roaming across the field, more than he had ever seen before. Cats upon cats upon cats: tabbies and tortoise shell and black and gray and orange, striped and spotted and patterned, all looking hungry and more than ready to hunt.

And there, leading them all like a knight to battle, was the dark brown, blue-gray eyed mouse. The mouse ran straight up to him and jumped onto the top of one of his boots. The little creature sat there on his hind legs and began cleaning his face and ears.

Charles looked from the mouse to the throng of cats, then back to the mouse. "I don't believe it," he said, "I don't believe it!" But he bent down and gently cupped the mouse in his hands.

"You did this, didn't you, Mouse?" He asked the mouse as he held him up to his eyes. The mouse sat perfectly calmly in his hands. "I don't know how...it's not possible...but you did this. You had to have done this. A mouse brought enough cats to keep our field mouse-free forever." He shook his head, amazed. "You're not just a mouse, are you, little one?" He asked the animal, "I don't know _what_ you are, but you can't be merely a mouse."

All around his feet, the cats purred and rubbed against him before slipping between the sheaves of wheat to hunt. In minutes it was if there had never been a cat there at all.

"And here I thought a mouse was only good for eating grain," Charles said. He moved one hand so he could gently pet the creature on his head, and the mouse stayed perfectly still and let him. "I guess, friend Mouse, that I can trust you after all. I should have trusted you all along."

Malcolm Mouse did not understand his words, but knew by the man's smile, by his evident relief, that he had done well. When the farmer picked him up he was happy. 'I may never be a knight again,' Malcolm Mouse thought, 'but all the same, I have made life easier for him. That will be good enough. Maybe being a lowly mouse will not be so terrible, after all.'

But just as he was thinking that, just as he had reconciled to living the remainder of his days in a tiny, furry body, he understood the first human word since he had been enchanted. And that word was 'trust.'

And the next thing Malcolm knew, he was standing back at the gates to King Jonathan's castle, a man and a knight once more, dressed as he had been the day the Elf Queen had worked her magic on him.

The Elf Queen was there with her two servants, looking exactly as when he had first seen them. The woman inclined her head regally to him before she spoke.

"You have done well, Sir Malcolm," she said, "and as promised, your humanity has been restored. To the rest of the castle, it will be as if you were never gone."

Malcolm looked around himself, bewildered. Everything seemed the wrong size. "Thank you," he said at length, "but what of the farmer? If nothing here has changed, what of him?" He did not want to think of the young man being left with a broken fence, an army of mice gobbling his grain, a weasel free to prey on his few chickens.

He thought, for just a second, that perhaps the Elf Queen gave him the briefest ghost of a smile. "Wait a year, Sir Malcolm. Wait a year and go back. Then you will know."

Malcolm let out a breath. His body felt much too cumbersome, far too large. "Is that all you'll tell me?"

The Elf Queen raised a single eyebrow. "Do you not trust me?"

"Forgive me, M'Lady," Malcolm said. He bowed low. "Of course I do." And he did.

One year later, Malcolm did go back to the man's farm. It was very strange to him to be traveling on horseback the same road he had once ran over on four tiny paws. He decided he much preferred the second journey.

For a year he had kept the memories of his adventures as a mouse to himself, telling no one, but they had not faded for his silence. Malcolm recognized the farm immediately, but only from the lay of the land, for now it was vastly different: Where there had once been a single, miserable barn with a few chickens, there was a large building with chickens, goats and two oxen. Bees buzzed around the barnyard as if on constant patrol, or bent the stalks of a vast garden of flowers. There were four cows in the pasture, each one sleek and fat, and the fence looked completely silvered with thick, unbreakable cables of spider web. There were several beehives alongside a field thick with grain, and plump cats everywhere, lapping at dishes of milk or contentedly licking their paws.

It was in the wheat field that the knight found the man again. The farmer himself looked exactly the same, if a little older. His bearing, however, was of one from whom a great burden has been lifted. He obviously no longer had to worry about the winter, or where his next meal would come from. It was near threshing time for another year, but this time the young farmer wasn't working alone. There were two other men working with him; the past year had obviously brought him a great deal of fortune.

One of the workingmen saw Malcolm first, and the knight could see him telling his employer and pointing in his direction. Malcolm dismounted quickly and waited patiently while the farmer came up to him.

"Ho, stranger," the farmer grinned at him, clapped his hand to Malcolm's in greeting, "you look well-traveled, are you in need of a place to stay for the night?"

"No," Malcolm said, "though I thank you." He found himself blushing, thinking of how welcoming this farmer was, compared to how unfriendly he'd been to much grander looking folk but a year ago. "Actually," and Malcolm swallowed, wondering why this simple conversation should be so difficult, "I've been sent here on King's business—to make sure there are enough resources for each family in this province of the kingdom." As proof he held out his hand, where he wore the official seal of the king.

"The king!" the farmer breathed, and his eyes went wide. "The king!" He dropped to one knee in front of Malcolm, bowing his head. "Forgive me, m'Lord," he said, "I didn't realize you were a noble—"

"Please," Malcolm said quickly, "please don't kneel for me. I'm not that important." When the farmer looked Malcolm smiled at him, extending his hand. "I'm just a knight."

The farmer raised his head, looked at the offered hand for a moment as if unsure he could touch it, but finally let Malcolm pull him to his feet. But when he and Malcolm were face to face he hesitated.

"Do I know you, Sir knight?" The farmer gave him an uncertain smile.

Malcolm found himself blushing again. He shook his head. "Please call me Malcolm," he said, "but I'm afraid we've never met." He realized he still had the farmer's hand held in his, and let go immediately, stepping back.

"Oh, of course," the farmer said. He glanced at his empty hand for a moment, then clasped both his hands behind his back. "My apologies, Sir...Malcolm. I'm called Charles."

"Charles," Malcolm said, knowing he would never forget it. "That's a fine name."

"It's a common one, but it suits me," Charles said. He tilted his head slightly as he looked at Malcolm's face. "Are you sure we haven't met? You seem very familiar. Your eyes..." He laughed, shrugging. "Never mind." He gestured behind him, at the field where one worker had gone back to threshing the grain, while the other was seeing to the knight's horse. "I suppose you'd like to look around?"

"I would," Malcolm said. Even with all the changes, the farm was still wonderfully familiar. He felt something bump against his ankle, and knelt down to pet a purring female cat. "BirdStalker?" He asked softly, "is that you?"

He would never know if the cat understood him, but she purred even more loudly and pressed her nose into his palm.

"Oh," Charles looked back to see Malcolm and the cat, "don't mind the cats—they're all over the place. They love it here. I haven't seen a mouse since..." He broke off, studying the knight. "Since the last one left a year ago, disappeared right out of my hands. Funny," Charles' voice was considering, "the little thing led an entire army of cats here, and he was completely the wrong color for a mouse: dark brown, very much like your hair." Charles stepped closer. Malcolm stayed kneeling, petting the cat. He stayed very still.

"You know," Charles was saying, his blue eyes had gone distant, "I missed that little creature. He always seemed to be...something more than just a mouse."

"He was," Malcolm said quietly. He kept petting the cat.

Charles nodded slowly. "Well then," he said, "I hope I'll get the chance to thank him. It seems I owe him a great deal."

"Not really," Malcolm said. It was hard to make the words audible over the pounding of his heart. "In truth, the mouse owes you far more than you could ever realize."

"Then I'll say we're even," Charles said. This time it was he who extended his hand, and the knight who took it. And this time neither of them let go or stepped away. "But I think I still owe the mouse supper," Charles grinned, "and I think I can find more than just water and bread this time."

Malcolm found himself grinning back. "That would be wonderful."

"Come then," Charles said. Now he let go of Malcolm's hand, but only to turn and lead him towards the farmhouse. "I'm sure my father would like to meet a representative of His Majesty." He looked back at the knight, and his smile became sly. "And you can tell me how it is you know this particular brown mouse so well, and what that mouse did to earn the friendship of spiders, and bees, and cats."

"It's a long story," Malcolm said as he walked beside him, "and it starts badly, but it has a happy ending."

~A Mouse Has Run, My Tale is Done~


End file.
